


A Spike In the Family

by graceandfire



Series: Hell Hound Puppy [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandfire/pseuds/graceandfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike meets John Winchester.  It does not go smoothly.  PLEASE NOTE - This fic is rather unfinished at the end.  Not a massive cliffhanger or anything but it sort of trails off.  Fair warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Fuck, are you sure about these coordinates?” Dean asked, scowling at his surroundings. Here they were, back in the God damned wilderness. He just hoped it didn’t turn out to be another Wendigo because one Wendigo in a lifetime? Was one too freaking many.

“You checked them the same as I did,” Sam answered impatiently, scanning the dusty, rocky and generally unwelcoming area with an assessing stare. They’d gotten the text message from Dad three days ago. A tiny little strip of town called Blackdust up in the foothills of North Dakota. The actual coordinates had been up past the sprinkling of weathered buildings that made up the town, going into the hills themselves. The Impala hadn’t had a chance of making the journey, so they’d been hiking for the past three hours, Dean’s increasing litany of complaints and Spike’s occasional yips and yelps the main audio accompaniment to their reluctant nature walk.

Sam’s usual avenues of research, the internet and local libraries, hadn’t turned up any helpful information. There was a legend about some great battle, occurring hundreds of years before the white man had ever ventured into the hills. The tale involved a great sacrifice; a sacrament of blood from three righteous men on holy ground. But there wasn’t any indication of anything bad happening in the area. If anything, the tales were about protections and miracles. Not a single sign of anything evil to clean out.

“Spike! Don’t…even…think about it,” Dean gritted out and Sam turned to see Spike on the verge of plunging off the narrow foot trail they’d been following for the last three hours. Spike looked back at Dean, furry black head cocked inquiringly and let out a questioning “yip?”

“No,” Dean said firmly. “You don’t know what kind of evil’s out there. Hell, a regular old cougar could make a snack of a little dude like you.”

Sam watched Spike look yearningly at the scrabbly bushes that appeared to be issuing a powerful doggy call before heaving an almost human sigh and scrambling back onto the main trail, heading over to where Dean was frowning down at him. Seeing Spike stepping back on the trail, Dean let go of his annoyance at being in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere long enough to lean down and smooth his hand over Spike’s tufted head in gentle approval. “Good boy,” he murmured, before straightening back up and frowning at Sam. “Dude, are you sure you’ve got the right coordinates?”

Sam shot his brother an unfriendly look. “About another half mile should get us there,” he gritted out after manfully biting back the first five replies that crossed his mind.

Dean heaved out a sigh and reached down to offer some water to Spike who had abruptly run out of steam and collapsed on the dusty path, wide pink tongue stuck out, panting heavily. Once Spike finished lapping at the water, Dean took a few swallows himself before reaching down to scoop the tired puppy into his arms. “Fine, let’s go then. Daylight’s burning.”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s back. He wasn’t the one who’d stopped now was he? Whatever.

Half a mile further along the trail, climbing up, the path abruptly ended at an entrance to a small valley and Sam stopped there, his aching feet momentarily forgotten as he took in the beauty of the small clearing.

“Are we there yet?” Dean asked, the sarcasm plain in his sing-song voice as he scrambled up the incline to stand beside Sam, still playing mule for Spike. At the sight before him Dean forgot the sarcastic remark he’d been about to utter, startled out of it by the open expanse of emerald green dotted with thatches of brilliant wildflowers, made even more beautiful after the contrast of hours of dull red dust. Even he was impressed at the unexpected beauty. Spike, upon seeing the wide open field, green and shimmering in the sunlight, immediately began squirming in excitement and when Dean gently dropped him down took off on an excited tear, yipping madly as he ran to investigate the cool green play area that Sam and Dean had brought him to.

“Spike!” Dean yelled in exasperation after the streak of black fur. Shaking his head, Dean grumbled “stupid dog is gonna be eaten by a bobcat.” He looked over at Sam who was engrossed in the map he’d picked up in Blackdust. “Of course he has more sense than you did as a little kid.”

“Bite me,” Sam responded absently as he compared the map and coordinates programmed into his PDA one last time. Looking up he met his brother’s gaze, a puzzled expression showing. “Well, this is it.”

“You’re sure?” Dean asked skeptically.

Sam gave him a ‘look.’ “Yes Dean, I’m sure.”

“Huh.” Dean reached up to scratch at his ear as he looked around at the enclosed valley. “I don’t get it. Nothing bad seems to be going on. No unexplained deaths in town. And now we get to a nice, sunny meadow which, don’t get me wrong, is a nice change of pace from falling down haunted houses but…not exactly our gig.”

“Well, maybe it’s the…” Sam paused as he ran the facts through his brain one more time. “It could be that there’s a…” he sighed and shrugged. “Dean. I don’t know.”

Just before Dean could crack wise about how geek-boy Sammy was supposed to know everything, the sound of frantic, high pitched yelping pierced the air. Instantly both brothers were on alert, eyes cold, mouths grim as they scanned the large clearing for signs of Spike and the reason behind his terrified barks.

Dean had drawn his gun from instinct the minute he’d heard the fear in Spike’s voice, and he raised it now as he called the puppy’s name, worried eyes searching for the hound. “Spike!” He yelled out.

Sam seconded the call as he shoved his PDA into his back pocket and brought out his own gun. Where the hell was the puppy?

They both saw the blur of moving grass heading towards them at the same time; and with true dawning horror, the figure rapidly catching up to the hound with a deadly hunter’s speed.

Their reactions were instant and explosive as they shouted in unison.

“Dad, NO!!”


	2. Chapter 2

“Dad, NO!!”

Dean reacted a split second sooner than Sam, taking off like he was spring loaded. Gun held forgotten in his hand, he ran straight for John Winchester who was closing in fast on the puppy like the trained hunter that he was, a Remington semi-automatic rifle cradled in his arms.

“Don’t you shoot him!” Sam cried out, fury and pleading taking equal share in his hoarse voice as he overcame his initial burst of frozen panic and shot past Dean, long legs eating up the ground. Terror was pulsing through him, pushing him to greater speed, terror for Spike and terror for the knowledge that he wasn’t sure he’d forgive his father if he shot the puppy down.

The elder Winchester had slowed at his sons’ frantic shouts, giving Spike enough time to reach the sanctuary of his packmates. Sam was scooping the puppy up even as he skidded to a halt, cradling Spike protectively against his chest as he ran gentle hands over the puppy’s head and body, soothing the trembling hell hound with his touch and the rumble of his voice. His own heart was racing and he concentrated on stilling it as he watched his father approach, an all too familiar expression of anger on the older man’s stern features.

Seeing Spike safe in Sam’s arms, Dean slowed as well, coming up to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother, green eyes wary as the joy of seeing his father again warred with the uncertainty of the circumstances.

“Dad,” Dean greeted his father, equal portions of welcome, caution and respect in his voice.

John barely spared Dean a glance before turning his glare on Sam. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? That’s a God damned hell hound Sammy. Put it down.”

The order sounded angry and incredulous. Just like old times.

“No,” Sam responded, chin stubborn, eyes defiant.

Shit, Dean thought ruefully. Just like old times. “Dad…” he interjected, trying to explain. “We know Spike’s a hell hound but…”

“Spike?” John turned his scowling attention to his oldest son. “You named a creature from hell Spike? Son, this thing is not a fucking pet, it’s a demon.” The incredulity in his father’s voice made Dean wince.

“He’s not a creature from…well, okay, yeah he is but…he’s not evil,” Dean had automatically fallen into his soothing ‘let’s all get along’ voice, honed from years of standing between his father and Sam as he stepped forward to put himself once again literally between the two men.

“He’s a hell hound Dean. As in…from hell,” John responded impatiently and gestured at Sam again. “Son, put the dog down now.”

Sam just shook his head, chin jutting out stubbornly. “I’m not putting him down until you promise not to hurt him.”

“Fine,” John said immediately. “I won’t hurt it. Just put it down.”

“Jesus, you’re fucking lying to me,” Sam said in disbelief, tightening his hold on Spike instinctively.

“Dammit Sam, you put that dog…”

“You never listen! You just…”

“Enough!!” Dean roared causing both men to turn their disgruntled stares on him and Spike to whimper.

Sighing Dean focused on his father. “Dad you need to trust us. We’ve had Spike for almost two months. We wiped out his mother and litter mates because, hell yeah, they were evil. But Spike was different. He is different. He doesn’t have a mean bone in him.” His tone was almost apologetic but there was no give either and Sam was reminded that the only times Dean ever went against Dad was when he was trying to protect someone from the other man's anger; usually Sam.

Startled, John studied his oldest son’s face, the sincerity that shone through. He switched his gaze to his youngest son’s face, seeing the too familiar stubborn anger. Finally he let his gaze fall to the thing shivering in Sam’s arms.

“Let me see it,” he finally said, placing the rifle on the ground and holding out his arms to Sam who didn’t move, eyeing his father suspiciously.

John gave him a gruff frown. “Sam, I promise, I won’t hurt it. At least not right now,” he added and Sam must have seen something in his face, or maybe it was the softly admonishing “Sam,” from Dean because his youngest son finally, with a comforting hush to the hound, put the puppy in his arms with the warning “don’t scare him.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the order, John held the warm wriggling body in his capable hands and studied it dispassionately. He’d been lying on his bed roll at the far edge of the meadow when the noise had warned him of its initial approach, the snuffling, panting and soft swish of moving grass, indicating that some sort of small animal was approaching. He’d figured a fox or a rabbit or maybe a skunk. He hadn’t been worried. Not with what he knew about the meadow. So when the hell hound had stumbled into view his first, instinctive reaction had been to smile and think ‘puppy’ because even John Winchester was susceptible to cuteness.

He’d started to hold out his hand for the dog because--despite Sammy currently looking at him like he was a serial murderer--he did like dogs. But then his hunter’s eyes had seen the red irises and the pattern of its fur and identified it as a hell hound; a baby one maybe, but a hell hound nonetheless and therefore evil and therefore in need of a one way trip back to hell. John had reached for his knife before, cursing silently, he'd remembered just why this location was such a good meeting site for his boys. Weapons useless, he’d grabbed his rifle and started the chase, herding it out of the clearing where he could take the shot.

As he’d followed its panicked yelps, he’d scanned the area for other predators, knowing it was unlikely an immature hell hound had made its way here on its own, which is why he’d been unsurprised to see two figures heading towards him. The shock had come with the realization that the figures were his sons.

Upon recognizing Sam and Dean, John’s first reaction had been fear. Whatever had brought this hell hound with it could be targeting the boys; they were sure as hell running as though the hounds of hell were chasing them. His second emotion was startlement when he realized his boys weren’t running from something they were running to something. And then Sam had scooped up the damned hound and tried to protect it from him which was when John's third emotion had kicked in--anger.

Now, with his sons watching him like he was the damn bad guy, John cautiously held the hound, looking for signs of evil. It didn’t look very dangerous, John silently admitted to himself, forcing his temper down and examining it objectively. It was whimpering and wriggling, obviously not wanting to be held any more than John wanted to hold it. He held it higher, up to eye view. He’d run into hell hounds before and they were aggressive killing machines made up of raw, snarling power. They were evil and no matter how cute this puppy was it was eventually going to turn into a killing…slurp. Startled, John jerked the dog back. It had just licked him. It had just licked him and now was hanging limp in his grip giving him a pitiful look out of big somehow soulful red eyes.

“Yip!”

Well shit.


	3. Chapter 3

John Winchester scowled as he led his boys--and one inappropriately friendly hell hound puppy--back across the clearing towards his camp site. So far this reunion was not going according to plan. Not that he had a big plan. But the boys losing all sense and adopting a fucking hell hound puppy? Definitely not part of the damn plan.

Most of the walk to John’s camp was conducted in silence, everyone settling into their own thoughts and holding back, unwilling to risk breaking the truce that had settled uneasily after John had handed the puppy back to Sammy. The puppy—Christ, John was not calling it Spike—was the noisiest of them all with his snuffling and occasional interested yips. Their slow pace gave the pup plenty of time to explore and he took full advantage, zipping back and forth, stubby tail wagging furiously as he pounced on various objects of dog interest. This was in no way cute John assured himself.

It was Dean who finally broke the silence, no surprise to John since his eldest didn’t really do quiet except when he was focused on hunting.

“So Dad, what’s the deal about these coordinates?” his eldest shot a questioning look at John, just as they came into sight of the small and tidy campsite. “I mean, Sammy looked and there’s no bad history on this place…” Dean paused as they reached the campsite and he and Sam dropped their day packs. Sam immediately swept Spike up into his arms protectively—causing John to bite back a growl—before folding his long limbs down to the ground to sit on a corner of John’s bedroll.

Dean quickly followed suit, sinking onto the grass next to his brother as, groaning, he kicked his feet out in front of him in relief.

John shot him an amused grin. “Getting soft Deano?”

“No sir!” Dean snapped out, shoulders stiffening until he saw the smile on his father’s face at which point he slumped again and scowled at his boots. “But the Universe sure as hell knew what it was doing when it invented the automobile.”

“Y’know some people walk for fun Dean. They enjoy the great outdoors,” Sam smirked across at his brother although John was willing to bet his youngest was just as sore as Dean. Sam and Dean were both in shape. You had to be when your life depended on being fast and strong and deadlier than the monsters. But his boys weren’t exactly used to long treks through the wilderness, the occasional camping and ‘hunting’ trips outside of town boundaries aside.

John bit back a smile as Dean shot his brother the finger, Sammy’s smirk widening into a broad grin his only response. A hard knot of tension loosened in John at the sight of his boys sitting side by side, getting along and comfortable together in a way they hadn’t in those last months before Sammy had left.

“So why are we here Dad?” Sam took up Dean’s question, genuinely curious. The few peaceful minutes had mellowed his temper so his tone was minus the accusation or suspicion that would have gotten John’s back up.

“Yeah, what’s the beastie we need to kill?” Dean asked, tone serious, although his posture had relaxed. John could tell that, with the pup not in immediate danger, Dean was basking in the knowledge that his family was, for once, back together again with no one yelling accusations at anyone else. Dean would have probably been surprised at how well John could read his oldest even if—John could admit to himself if not to others—it somehow rarely translated into being a better father.

“Actually there’s nothing to kill here,” John responded, drawing surprised looks from both his boys. “I’m guessing your research turned up good things about this place?” he nodded to Sam.

“Yeah actually,” Sam responded, brows furrowing in recall. “Nothing concrete but legends exist about this being a holy place.”

“It’s not just a legend, it’s based in fact,” John nodded his approval of Sam’s results.

“The willing sacrifices that have been made here have turned this meadow into true holy ground.” John pointed at his rifle where he’d set it against his pack. “Guns won’t find their target and neither will knives. This place is a true sanctuary.”

“Really?” Dean looked at their surroundings skeptically. “You’re saying if I tried to use my knife here,” he drew his blade, “it wouldn’t work?”

“Yep.” John affirmed, smiling in wry amusement as Dean immediately made a shallow draw against his own forearm, hissing out a curse when a thin line of red appeared. “Fuck!” Dean scowled at the shallow cut. “I thought you said…”

“With the intent to harm,” John clarified, with a soft laugh. “I guess curiosity doesn’t fall under the rules.”

Dean scowled again, feeling the sting of the cut. Bah. Stupid sanctuary rules. The puppy suddenly squirmed out of Sammy’s arms and trotted up to Dean, sniffing at the cut curiously and eyeing it with what John rejected as concern. The hell hound was probably attracted by the blood.

"Yip?" the puppy barked inquiringly, head tilted, looking up into Dean’s suddenly softened features.

“I’m okay little dude,” Dean rubbed the pup’s head reassuringly. Enjoying the attention, the puppy gave a satisfied grunt—that was not cute at all dammit—and sat at Dean’s side.

“So then what are we doing here?” Sam asked again as he picked a tall blade of grass and held it up in the air in invitation, causing the puppy to give an excited "Yip!" as it rushed over and start jumping for the stem, making little puppy grunts of effort with each leap that fine—John gave up with a mental sigh of disgust—were pretty damned cute.

Scowling at the internal admission and trying to figure out how to answer Sam’s question, John grabbed a tin mug from the side of the fire, making a show of pouring himself a cup of joe from the pot warming over the fire, buying himself time to articulate his response.

Because the truth was he didn’t really have a good reason to give the boys on why he’d broken cover and called them all together. It had been the right call to separate. First from Dean and, once his eldest had tracked down his brother, from both of them. John knew it in his gut, especially now as he felt himself finally drawing near to that yellow eyed bastard.

But he’d missed them. Missed both of them so damned much.

When Sam had left for Stanford, John had felt the pain of separation like a poker twisting in his gut. He and Dean had been walking wounded, both fiercely pretending there wasn’t a gaping Sam shaped hole in their lives; never discussing or even acknowledging what was missing. It hadn’t been just the fear for his younger son’s safety—although that had been a constant gnawing that had driven John to the bottom of a bottle more than once—but just plain missing him. Which was funny considering him and Sammy hadn’t done anything but snap and snarl at each other like two alpha dogs that last year. But still; it had felt like a missing limb once the boy had gone.

And then when he’d left Dean behind…well, when Mary had been murdered John had thought he’d just about die from the loneliness. All that kept him going during the years that followed was revenge and his boys and, to his shame, revenge had usually come first. But he’d always had Sammy and Dean to come back to. To keep him human. Now he had nothing but the final hunt. He’d thought it would consume him and it did. But the loneliness was a constant ache. And it was that, more than anything that had brought them to this place.

He looked up from sipping his coffee and saw both boys’ eyes fixed on him and felt everything unsaid stop up behind his throat until he finally shrugged. “I thought it was time to do a face to face check-in. Compare notes on what you’ve been seeing of Supernatural activity. There’s been an upswing from what I can tell over the past few months.”

He saw a tension that strangers wouldn’t have noticed leave both of his sons and knew the reason. They’d come prepared for danger. Prepared for darkness. It was a rare occurrence for that preparedness to be unnecessary and the relief had its effect.

The puppy, taking advantage of Sam’s momentary distraction, pounced on the lowered grass stem still held in Sam’s hand with a triumphant muffled "Yip!" before flopping down, victorious, to gnaw on his captured prize, oblivious to the amused grins pointed his way.

Mouth still quirked into a half-smile at Spike’s antics, Dean rubbed a hand over his head in consideration. “Hard to say if there’s been an increase but we sure as hell have had some interesting cases come up, the past few months.”

“Yeah?” John encouraged. “Tell me.”

That was enough to get his boys going and John sat back, sipping coffee, as the evening shadows darkened, content to sit and listen to his boys tell their tales, falling into their old banter; interjecting corrections here and there and shooting good-natured insults back and forth. It felt so good to be here with them, their mere presence seeping into John, soothing the edges that were feeling rawer ever day. Things were coming to a head at last; he felt it burning in his gut and he didn't expect to survive the coming end game.

He’d been right to call his boys here to see them one last time.


End file.
